The One Who Was Supposed To Survive
by Nekosblackrose
Summary: (Slight AU) When Mark goes out to look for Collins on Christmas Eve things go from bad to worse when he's mugged. It doesn't look like he's going to survive a week with the injuries... Slight Marker, but you don't have to squint. Rated for violence and language.


**A/N: This is basically a 'What if?' fic. What if this happened when Mark went out to find Collins? I've kinda been a roll with Rent fics lately. Mainly Marker. . I'll be adding chapter 2 of Letters soon. Hope you guys enjoy this! Let me know what you think :3**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Rent. I just use the characters.

* * *

_"I thought we could all go out and grab some dinner." _

_"Zoom in on my empty wallet." _

_"...Touché. Don't forget to take your AZT." _

That had been hours ago. Mark had gone to find Collins. Roger had gone up to the roof to try and find inspirations before going back to the loft when he failed. There was a knock on the door and he'd thought it was Mark. When he answered it, there stood the dancer from the Cat Scratch Club. they went round and round with lighting the candle and then her stash. She left for good after telling Roger her name and shaking the bag of powder in his face. He'd watched the door shut and sighed, laying out on the couch with his guitar.

More hours passed. It was three in the morning when the door to loft creaked open to reveal Mark on the other side. Roger's eyes widened at the sight of his friend. Blood crusted under his broken nose and there was a line of it drying against his forhead leading up to a gash in his hair, coloring some of it a rustic red. His eyes were unfocused and his glasses were missing. His left arm lay limp at his side and when he stumbled forward Roger saw that his right foot was turned at a strange angle.

Roger was up and to his side quicker than he thought possible. Mark leaned against him instantly and Roger wrapped his arms around him, keeping him from falling. He didn't ask what happened, he already knew. Muggers. There was a clatter as Mark's camera fell from his hands. Neither of them made a move to pick up it. Roger lifted Mark into his arms and started down the stairs as quickly as he could without stumbling. When he was in the street he set Mark down and hailed a cab.

"It'll be okay, Mark," He assured as he gently placed him inside of the cab before getting in along with him. He told the cabbie to get them to the hospital fast. He craddled Mark to him telling him that it would be okay to reassure him, as well as himself. He had known this could happen but had never thought that it would. Not to Mark. This couldn't happen to Mark.

When they finally pulled up to the hospital he rushed inside with Mark in his arms again, forgetting to pay the cabbie. He shouted for someone to hurry. Nurses swarmed and pulled Mark from him, putting him on a stretcher and wheeling him quickly into an opperating room. He was left standing there, shaking and breathing hard. Oh, God...this couldn't be happening.

"Hey!" Someone grabbed his shoulder and yanked him around. The cabbie. "You owe me $32.24." Roger dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. He shoved them at the cabbie and moved to the desk in the lobby.

"E-excuse me? Can I use the phone?" He asked the woman there. She looked up at him and was about to say no, but she saw the distress on his face. She shut her mouth and nodded, moving the phone so that he could use it. He dialed the number for the loft. He got the answering machine, of course. "H-hey, Collins. It's Roger. I'm at the hospital. Mark got mugged. He-...he's in bad shape. Could you come when you get this? Thanks..." He hung up and pushed the phone away, going to sit down in one of the hard plasic chairs in the waiting room.

He hated this shit. He sat there for hours, waiting to hear what was going on. The sun crept up above the horizon as he waited, throwing cold winter light through the windows. Roger had his head in his hands and his knee was bouncing with nerves. The clock on the wall ticked endlessly, counting the seconds, minutes, hours before someone finally came to tell him what the damage was.

"His ankle is shattered," Was the first thing the doctor told him. "His arm is broken in two places. He's got a concusion and his nose is broken. The gash on his head has been stitched up. But that's the minor damage." Just the minor? Oh, God. Roger took a shaky breath and nodded, indicating that the doctor should continue. He might as well know everything. "Two of his ribs were broken. One of them punctured his lung, and he's bleeding internally. We did all we could. He doesn't have long. Maybe a week. I suggest he stay here during that time."

"C-can I see him?" He choked out. The doctor nodded and led him to Mark's room. He bit his bottom lip to hold back the choked sob that rose in his throat. His arm was in a cast, and so was his foot and ankle. His right eye was starting to blacken and there, in his strawberry blonde hair, was a small, shaved section with black stitching. He moved slowly to Mark's bedside, sitting down on the edge and reaching out to him. His fingers stopped just centimeters away, ghosting over his cheek.

"Hey Roger," Mark said. His voice was rough and raspy. Like his throat was raw. There were IVs sticking out of his arm and the machines beeped with his heartbeat. Roger swallowed the tears he wanted the shed and smiled shakily at Mark.

"Hey Marky," He replied softly. "How you feeling?" His hand rested carefully against Mark's cheek.

"Like shit," Mark answered with a smile of his own. Roger laughed softly and stroked Mark's cheek with his thumb. He hated seeing Mark like this. "Where are my glasses?"

"I don't know..." Roger admitted. "You didn't have them when you came back to the loft." Mark sighed, leaning into Roger's hand, which remained on his cheek.

"What about my camera?" He asked. Roger laughed softly. Trust Mark to be more worried about his camera than himself.

"It's at the loft," Roger assured. He licked his lips and searched Mark's eyes for any hint that the doctors had told him how long he had. "Did...did they tell you?" Mark nodded, his uninjured arm coming up to grip Roger's leather clad forearm.

"I'm sorry, Rog..." He said, tears welling in his eyes. Roger shushed him and cupped his face in his hands, wiping the tears away as they fell.

"No, Mark," He said gently but firmly. "I'm sorry. I should have gone with you. This wouldn't have happened if I had been with you..." Mark began to cry and Roger held him, calming him gently until he fell asleep. That morning, Collins got the message Roger had left and came to the hospital. Mark was still asleep when Collins came into the room. Roger took him out of the room and told him what the doctors had said.

"A week?" Collins repeated when Roger finished. The rocker nodded, wrapping his arms around himself. "Jesus...why didn't you stop him from going out?" Roger bit his bottom lip. How many times had he tried not to cry today? He couldn't count them.

"Be-because I didn't...I never thought that something like this could happen to Mark," He admitted shamefully. "I mean, it's Mark! The only thing bad that's supposed to happen to him is getting dumped. This isn't supposed to happen to Mark..." Collins didn't answer. He simple pulled Roger into a hug and held him. He knew this was probably the hardest thing that Roger had ever had to deal with. Harder than April, withdrawals, or even knowing he had HIV. Knowing that Mark, the one who was supposed to survive it all, was going to be the first of them all to die. It was the worst thing Roger had ever had to deal with.

Mark's last week went by in a blur. Roger never left. He was always there. Collins was there a lot too. But there was always Roger. Roger had moved from sitting at the bedside, to laying beside him in the bed, to being his pillow. He had gently moved behind Mark in the late hours of the night, his legs on either side of the filmmaker, and his arms were wrapped around him gently. He didn't sleep much, listening intently to the heart monitor.

He didn't notice that Mark was awake until he felt his hand against his arm. Mark's fingers stroked his arm before gripping it softly. He looked up at Roger and smiled softly. Roger returned it.

"Roger? There's...something I need to tell you," Mark said, leaning his head back against Roger's shoulder. Roger leaned down and rested his chin against Mark's shoulder.

"What is it?" He asked softly. He knew Mark didn't have much time. His voice was weak, and today was the seventh day he'd been in the hospital bed. They were alone. Collins had gone to get them all food.

"I've been...been meaning to tell you for a long time," Mark started, his grip tightening on Roger's arm. "I know it's probably stupid but...I love you." Roger choked on a sob and buried his face against Mark's shoulder.

"It's not stupid," He said through the tears that escaped his eyes. He'd been holding them back for so long he just couldn't any longer. "I lo-" He was cut off by a loud, high pitched, steady tone. Flat line. Mark's fingers were limp and slipped from Roger's arm. Roger felt panic rise and grip his chest, forcing it tighter around his heart and making it pound against his ribs. "Mark? Mark?! No! No! Mark! MARK!" He held Mark tighter and tried to get him to respond. Tears fell down his face in a steady stream as sobs wracked his body. "Mark?! This isn't funny! Mark! Wake up, Mark! Please..." But Mark didn't answer.

Roger screamed. He screamed and the cried, rocking with Mark still tightly clasped to his chest. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he didn't see the doctors and nurses rushing into the room. He felt them try to pull him off of the bed and he fought. He punched someone and shoved another. Evading their hands and arms.

"NO! LEAVE ME ALONE! MARK!" He screamed and yelled and snarled at them. He didn't know who it was that finally forced his arms against his sides and yanked him from the bed. "NO! LET ME GO! MARK! MARK! LET GO OF ME! GOD DAMN IT! _MARK!_" He kicked out and twisted, trying to get free from the strong grip that held him. He was jerked and dragged from the room, down the hall. Away from Mark. "STOP! LET ME GO! I NEED TO TELL HIM! MARK! NO!" He kicked out again and his foot connected with someone's shin. There was a grunt and the grip slackened.

He shoved away from the person and ran towards the room. There were arms around his torso and he was lifted off the ground and carried further away from Mark. He struggled and screamed and sobbed and shouted and yelled and cried. Doors opened and cold air slapped his face. He was dropped onto his ass on the sidewalk. He shot up and ran back towards the building. He was grabbed by the collar of his jacket and yanked backwards. He went to punch the person, but they beat him to it, hitting him square in the jaw and sending him sprawling against the pavement. He looked up to see Collins standing over him, panting and with tears slowly trickling down his cheeks.

"He's dead, Roger," He said softly. But those three words were like a slap to the face. A punch to the gut. A knife to the heart. A kick to the groin. All rolled into one big giant lump in his throat.

"N-no," Roger said, shaking his head and slowly getting to his feet. "No. No! He can't be! Mark can't be-be-be..." He gasped and sucked in breath over and over again. He couldn't breathe. "Not Mark...they-they can't take-take...Marky. Not Marky..." Collins wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly. Roger sobbed into the taller man's shoulder and gripped him tightly.

"I know, Roger," He said softly. "I'm gonna miss him too...but he's gone. There's nothing we can do to bring him back." Roger sobbed and cried and tried to reason that, yes there was a way to bring him back. But even he knew that once you were dead, you were dead. There ain't no coming back from death.

He didn't remember going back to the loft. But when he finally came back to himself he was curled up on the couch clutching Mark's camera to his chest. The lense was cracked and there was a new dent in the body. One of the buttons was stuck too. He didn't take his AZT. Mark wasn't there to remind him, so why should he?

Collins came and went with food and drink. Trying to drag Roger out of the loft, but to no avail. A thin layer of dust had begun to form over his guitar, laying untouched on the ground by the couch. Why would he play when there's no one around to hear him? No Mark to pick at him about playing Musetta's Waltz when he's avoiding the ever present writer's block? It was two days after he found himself on the couch that he called Mark's parents and broke the new to them.

"Hello?" It was Mark's mother.

"Hi, Mrs. Cohen," Roger said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat.

"Roger?" The woman asked in surprise. "Is everything alright? Where's Mark?" Just hearing his name made Roger break down. He tried to cover the sob, but she heard it. "Roger, what's going on?"

"I-I'm so sorry..." He said, sliding down to the floor, the phone clutched in his hand so hard his knuckles were white. "He-he-he...He was...mugged and-and...be-beaten."

"Oh my God! Is he alright?!" She was getting frantic. Roger shook his head before he realized she couldn't see him.

"N-no...Mark's...Mark's de-d-dead," He forced the words out of his mouth before he broke further and began to sob like he had at the hospital. "Oh God! It's my fault! I-I didn't g-go wi-with him when-when he went out to-to look for our friend! If I-I had this wouldn't have happened! I'm so sorry...It's all my fault!" He could hear the woman on the phone sobbing just as hard as he was. Neither of them hung up and it was hours before either of them could talk properly.

"We-we'll bring him ho-home to be buried," Mrs. Cohen said. Roger instantly jumped up from the floor.

"No!" He shouted.

"What?! Why?" The woman was startled. Roger took a ragged breath before explaining.

"I want him buried here," He said, voice quiet. "N-near Central Park. He loved filming there. S-sometimes...sometimes he'd drag me...along. I'd play and he'd film. He'd film me playing sometimes. Please...I want him here." There was a long period of silence.

"Alright," Mrs. Cohen finally conceded, sniffling. "I'll make the arrangements for him to be buried there. Near the park. It-...it sounds like he enjoyed it there." Roger cracked a small, sad smile. Mark had hated living without food and heat and a decent amount of money. But...he had loved the filming.

"Th-thank you," Roger replied. They said their goodbyes and Roger found himself on the couch again, clutching Mark's camera to his chest.

A few days later, Roger found himself in the pew of the church at Mark's funeral. Open casket. Mark looked like he was asleep instead of stone cold dead. Words were spoken and then Roger was called up to say a few words. He walked up towards the casket and stared down at Mark. He still didn't have his glasses. Roger found himself crying again, but they were quiet tears. He reached down to gently cup Mark's cheek in his hand. He pulled back after a moment. Cold skin. Far too cold. He sniffled and turned around, looking at his boots and ratty jeans. He didn't have any good clothes to wear. His hands were fists inside of his jacket pockets.

"There's a lot that I could say about Mark," He started, slowly looking up at the few people in the pews. There was Collins, Mark's parents. Maureen had come and brought her girlfriend Joanne with her. "How he always looked at the world through the lense of his camera, or the way he would get frustrated with his screenplays and throw his hands in the air declaring that he gives up. But you'd always find him right back at it fifteen minutes later." He laughed softly and wiped at his eyes. "But...the most important thing about him...was that he loved. He loved what he did, he loved his friends and his family. No matter how annoyed he got with them. He was the best person I've ever known. And probably will ever know. Mark Cohen was my best friend. I'm...I'm gonna miss him..." _I can't live without him._ He lowered his head and moved to sit in the pew again. Collins wrapped his arms around his shoulder and squeezed lightly. Trying to comfort him.

Days, weeks, months. They passed in a blur. Roger was a zombie. He got thinner and looked like hell. The loft was quiet. His guitar had a thick layer of dust on it by now. The crumpled notebook he normal wrote lyrics into was untouched, the pages turning yellow. He didn't know what moved him to pull out Mark's projector. He'd seen Mark load film into it so many times he knew the motions of it by heart. He pulled the film from the camera and set it all up. He pulled a chair next to the projector and watched the film.

The first thing that flickered across the wall he used as a screen was himself. Sitting on the couch playing Musetta's Waltz. "This is my friend Roger. Procrastinating." Mark's voice. Roger sucked in a shuddered breath at the sound. He'd missed it. The Roger on the screen looked up and shot Mark the bird.

"And you're not?" Screen-Roger said. Mark laughed behind his camera.

"Come on. Let's go out," He said. The film went black before coming back to life. There was Mark. That meant Roger had the camera. He watched as Mark walked across the park benches and talked about what he was planning for his next film. His arms outstretched to keep his balance as he leapt from one bench to the next. The camera was passed to Mark at some point and Mark filmed Roger playing.

There was Collins in the loft smoking a joint and passing it to Roger. The camera was set down somewhere and they were all four there. Maureen was there. She was with Mark at this point. It cut off in the middle of loud laughter. There was Roger again. Mark filmed Roger a lot.

Then Mark was narrating as he filmed the people walking down the street and the bums sitting along the sidewalk. An unfamiliar voice called out and Mark turned, the angle of his camera moving a bit. Mark answered. Then there was a grunt and the camera was falling. It bounced and the screen jostled. When it settled Roger saw Mark on the ground. The camera was on its side so everything was sideways.

This was the mugging. Mark had been filming while searching for Collins. A shaky hand rose to cover Roger's mouth as he watched. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Mark's glasses were already gone. Boots connected with Mark's stomach and chest. A crack. Then another. A stomp to his arm. Crack. Another two to his ankle. Snap. Crack. Kicks to his back and side. As they left they stepped on Mark's arm again. Snap. Whimpers. He pulled himself towards the camera and picked it up. Turned it off. That was it.

Roger sat there staring at nothing as the tears streamed down his face. He should've gone with him that night. He buried his face in his hands and shut his eyes.

* * *

Roger's eyes snapped open and he was staring up at the ceiling of the loft. There were footsteps and the smell of coffee. The sound of glasses being picked up. Roger sat up quickly and looked towards the kitchen. There was Mark. Glasses still there. No gash on his head. No broken arm, or nose, or shattered ankle. He was fine. He looked at Roger.

"Hey," He said with a smile. Roger was up and walking towards him quickly. He frowned. "Roger? You o-whoa!" He was suprised when Roger grabbed him and yanked him towards himself. The force of Roger's pull sent them tumbling to the floor. Roger held Mark tightly, burying his face in his shoulder. He pulled him into his lap and held him so tightly he might leave bruises. He didn't care.

"Mark...Mark, you're alive," He murmured into his shoulder. "Thank God. I-I...You're okay. Oh, God. Mark." Mark was shocked at his friend's sudden actions. He wrapped his arms around the trembling rocker and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to sooth him.

"Yeah, I'm alive," He said, confusion coloring his voice. "Are you alright? What happened?" Roger was rocking and trembling, holding him so tightly. Like he'd never let go.

"I had a...a nightmare," Roger explained. It all came pouring out. The mugging, the hospital, the dying, the funeral, the film. "It felt so fucking real, Mark! I-I thought you were really dead!" Mark held Roger as he trembled and cried. The door to the loft opened and he looked up to see Collins enter.

"Merry Christmas, bitches!" He hollered before he noticed the situation. He dropped the keys he'd had in his mouth on the coffee table and went to them. "What's going on? Everything okay?" He reached out and Roger made a sound between a growl and a sob. Mark shook his head.

"Just...give us a bit," He said, looking at Collins pleadingly. The older man nodded and walked out of the loft to give them some time alone. "Roger, look at me?" Roger pulled away from Mark's shoulder and looked at him, his green eyes wide and still leaking tears. Before Mark could say anything Roger's mouth was against his. Kissing him hard and needy. Desperate.

"I love you," Roger murmured against his lips. "I love you, Mark. Please...please don't die..." Mark smiled softly and wiped the tears from Roger's eyes even as they continued to fall.

"I love you too, Roger," He said gently. "I'm not gonna die. I promise." Roger nuzzled against Mark's neck.

"You fucking better promise," He said. That nightmare had frightened Roger to his core. The thought of losing Mark was too much for him to bare. It was an hour, maybe two, before Roger calmed down enough to allow Collins to come back inside. He introduced them to Angel. Mark got a call from Maureen to help her fix the sound stage. Roger instantly got up to grab his jacket. He was going with him. He was going to protect Mark like he was supposed to. He wasn't going to let something like his dream happen to Mark. He swore it to himself that until he took his last breath, when the virus took hold, he'd be there to protect Mark. No matter what.

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**A/N: Surprise! Mark's not dead! I hope you liked this. Please review and let me know what you thought :3 **


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